


welcome to the wasteland

by gumsneaker



Category: Fallout: New Vegas
Genre: Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Behavior, Gen, M/M, Post-Canon, honestly this is less violent than the canon, i call this a play but it's like 1/3 script and 2/3 prose, kind of., kind of. partially., kind of. this is weird, sorry the tagged relationship only exists for like. a little bit. sorry. <3, unreality, vulgar language though watch out for that :/
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-27
Updated: 2020-07-15
Packaged: 2021-03-01 04:47:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 15,845
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23339386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gumsneaker/pseuds/gumsneaker
Summary: ( have as much fun as you would like / while helping others have as much fun as you're having )A play in five acts surrounding the notorious Courier Six, Benny Gecko, and a trip into the desert.
Relationships: Male Courier/Arcade Gannon
Comments: 1
Kudos: 22





	1. country roads

**Author's Note:**

> hi. okay. to preface this: the courier in this fic uses they/them pronouns! they are, however, still gay, and identify as a gay man. hence being tagged as the male courier.  
> i do have an explanation for this but i don't want this to get too wordy.  
> hope you enjoy, only warnings are for typical fallout stuff, enjoy!

Somewhere in the Mojave, a caravan scuttles along the desert.

From the view of a plane, of which there are not many these days, the caravan, a little wooden thing trudging along behind a brahmin saddled with bags, looks, perhaps, like an insect. It sounds quite like an insect, as well -- the wooden wheels click incessantly, too heavy with the weight of the crates and the three bodies seated there.

Benny Gecko sits on the left side of the caravan. His suit is checkered, as always, with a dusty layer caked on top of the careworn fabric. He feels like he hasn’t seen water in several days, not since he was crossing to the Fort. His hair feels disgusting on his head, but he hasn’t had the ability to do it the way he wants, _needs_ it to be, so he resigns himself to disgust, and when he catches sight of himself in a small, dusty mirror settled precariously against a crate near the front of the caravan, he regards himself with disdain before remembering that is him in the mirror, and swallows hard and looks away.

The Courier sits on the right side of the caravan. They’re suited up in what Benny recognizes as NCR armor, mostly by the helmet, the eerie red eyes of which seem to glare straight into Benny. Every time he decides he would rather see their face, he remembers what the scarring must be like, and swallows hard and looks away.

Rex, that freaky robot dog Benny only slightly recognizes from the times he’s passed through Freeside on his way back to the Tops, sits with his head in the Courier’s lap. He’s panting slightly under the sun, and the Courier’s hand (gloved, of course, Benny can’t possibly fathom how those layers must be comfortable in this heat) rests at the back of Rex’s head, where his brain’s casing meets soft fur. Some part of Benny wants to ask to pet him, but then he looks again at that brain, and swallows hard and looks away.

Ahead, a man is seated atop the brahmin lugging their caravan. He wears a hat, and Benny kind of wants to see if there’s an extra in these crates, if only to get the sun out of his eyes. It’s someone from the Crimson Caravan, Benny thinks, someone the Courier must be on good terms with. _As if that’s fuckin’ unusual_ , goes some bitter part of Benny’s brain, and he exhales hard through his nose. In the corner of his eye, Benny sees the Courier’s helmet tilt, and Benny wants to know what they’re thinking.

Instead of asking, however, Benny swallows, and says, “Ya didn’t have to do that, 6.”

Benny doesn’t have to look at them to know that those red eyes are staring straight at him. So instead he keeps his gaze fixed on the caravaneer. The caravaneer isn’t looking back at them, but his shoulders are tense, and Benny suspects he’s listening in on whatever conversation the two of them have.

Benny continues, “Don’t, uh, don’t s’pose you’ll be takin’ me back to the Chairmen now, smooth it all out with Swank and Tommy?” He hopes against hope that’s it. He would love to go back to the Strip, see all that is familiar, return to the Tops and collapse in his bed for like fourteen hours. Somehow, though, Benny suspects that won’t happen.

“No,” the Courier answers simply, and Benny sighs.

“What, then? You gonna take this caravan all the way back to Goodsprings and give me the ol’ one-two?” Benny meets the Courier’s stare for a minute. He wants to feel even, but he can’t see anything past the helmet, and Benny sucks his lower lip between his teeth for a minute before remembering he kicked that habit as a kid and resolving himself to exhaling slowly. He breaks his stare with the Courier, lets his eyes fall to the ground. He spots part of a cigarette at the bottom of the caravan, and ducks down to pick it up.

Benny twirls the half between his fingers, glances back up at the Courier. They have not shifted in the slightest, the only hint they’re even alive being the way they’re gently scratching behind Rex’s ears. Benny hesitates, and then offers the Courier a sideways smirk, continuing, “No offense, kid, but I really don’t think that you’re capable ah that.”

The Courier doesn’t respond. They continue to stare at him. Benny presses out the most amused sigh he can muster, but he’s sure it comes out anxious. He feels anxious. He’s not sure why. He supposes it’s probably the fact that he is sitting in the back of a caravan with the very person he attempted to shoot dead months ago. Benny averts their gaze, and slots his hand into his suit jacket. He’s feeling around in the interior pocket when he remembers he doesn’t have his lighter anymore. Without looking at them, he asks, “Hey, uh, you still got my lighter?”

He hears the thick fabric of their coat shuffling. He does not bother to look up, just watches as their hand, lighter sitting neatly in their open palm, enters his periphery. Benny huffs, and quickly takes it. He fumbles with it for a moment, but finally manages to light the half of the cigarette. Briefly, Benny considers the desperation implied in smoking part of a cigarette he found on the floor, but finally shoves the humiliation away with the realization that it’s been a good week since he’s smoked and that he could _really_ use the relief of it all.

“You can’t go back to the Strip.”

Benny looks up. It’s the first full sentence they’ve said to him since they helped Benny leave the Fort. He half wants to act surprised, like it’s a shocker that they could even string the words together, but he thinks maybe they’d choke him for that so instead he inhales and leans back.

“Why the hell not?”

The Courier is quiet for a moment. “I can’t trust that you won’t try this again.”

Benny searches his vernacular for what to say. Nothing seems to fit. Finally, he sputters, “That’s the money shot, eh,” and immediately feels stupid for it.

The Courier tilts their head. “What?”

“Don’t mind it,” Benny mutters. He pockets his lighter, tucking it back in its home inside his jacket. “What’ll we do instead?” Benny hears himself say _we_ , and internally berates himself. He doesn’t let it show, though, merely continues to twirl the lit cigarette between his fingers and peer back at the Courier.

The Courier catches it, though. Of course they do. Piece of shit. “I don’t care what _you_ do. I have plans of my own.”

Benny snorts. He takes a drag on the cigarette, tilts his head back to blow smoke into the air. He watches it dissipate, dark against the clouds hanging overhead, nowhere near thick enough to blot out the sun. “What’s that, then, kid? Take over alla’ New Vegas on your own? You expectin’ the place to see some fuckin’ mailman waltz in and go, _Ah, shit, guess we’re done for, better roll over and behave_?”

“I don’t want to rule New Vegas. No one should. The Mojave should be free. I’ll ensure the Securitrons keep the peace at home and continue trying to help the Wasteland where I can.” The Courier’s voice is clear, even through the helmet. Benny rights his head, peers at them for a minute, tries to discern how serious this is.

Benny knows shooting them did something to them. He realized it the moment he saw them at the Tops. It was the way they walked, the way they held themself, even underneath the armor. They weren’t like that before. No, when Benny loaded two bullets into Courier Six’s head in that cemetery in Goodsprings, they were _scared_.

Maybe, Benny thinks, everyone has a limit to how scared they can be in their lifetime. The Courier must’ve found theirs then, with their hands tied and a gun to their head. Meanwhile, he’s not sure he’ll ever find his.

Benny doesn’t voice this, though. He sighs, looks back at the caravaneer. “What a pipedream. This place can’t be perfect. You’re better off just takin’ off. Savin’ your own hide.”

“No place can be perfect. My job is to make it the best I can. I won’t run off, Benny. I’m no coward.” There’s venom dripping from his name when the Courier says it. They’re angry. Benny doesn’t blame them. He would be, too.

He takes another drag on the cigarette. He’s glad the wind is blowing such that the smoke doesn’t billow right back into his face. Quietly, as if he doesn’t even mean to say it, Benny asks, “So what do I do?”

The Courier’s answer is simple. “What do you want to do?”

Benny glances back at them. The eyes of that helmet are unwavering. He guesses that’s the intention. “I dunno,” Benny answers, and he shifts to look at the desert around them. He traces the horizon, squinting against the sun, twisting in his seat to take in all that is around him. It’s vast, open, seems to be in waiting. Benny takes in a breath, and says, “Guess a change ah scenery might be nice.”

The Courier is quiet. “Leave the Mojave altogether?”

“Maybe.” Benny takes another drag on the cigarette. He wants to be angry at the Courier, but he can’t find it in him. “You’re takin’ all I got away from me, 6. Don’t got the Tops anymore. Maybe it’s best if I get out.”

“Maybe,” the Courier echoes, and Benny can hear their sigh through the helmet. “I’m not going to apologize, Benny.”

“I know.”

Benny is surprised how little he has to say. Normally, Benny is busting at the seams to talk, filling every moment he can with chatter. He thinks that must be his natural state, or at least has been since Mr. House took New Vegas and put him in charge of the Tops. But now, Benny has nothing to say. The absence of it weighs on him. He can’t stand the quiet, never could.

And still it hangs. Benny takes a final drag on the cigarette, and blows the smoke straight into the Courier’s face. They don’t react, don’t even shift away from it. For a moment, it blots out the red of their eyepieces, and then it dissipates in the air, and the Courier continues to stare at him. Benny grits his teeth, puts the cigarette out on the crate next to him, and tosses the butt of it over the side of the caravan without a second thought. Rex utters a low growl at this, and Benny blows a raspberry at him.

He sees the Courier’s shoulders shake at this. Benny fears, for a moment, that they’re having some kind of stroke, and then he realizes that they’re _laughing_ at him. He glares at Rex for a minute longer, unwilling to glare at the Courier, and finally sighs.

“Guess I oughta get goin’. Best if I get outta here before sunset.”

“Maybe,” the Courier answers plainly. He thinks he almost preferred them laughing. This is boring. He mulls over this for a minute, and then it occurs to him that maybe he is looking for a reason to be angry at them, and then he’s angry at the fact that he can’t get angry at them.

“Don’t s’pose ya can tell me anythin’ aside from _maybe_?”

The Courier is silent. Benny tries to gather how slowly this caravan is moving, figure out if he can jump out without having to stop. After a minute, he decides it’s slow enough, and sighs slowly. The Courier continues to watch him -- he can feel those red eyes hanging onto his every move without having to confirm it by looking. Benny considers speaking again, but finally decides against it, and turns on the crate and jumps over the side of the caravan without further consideration.

He hears the caravan stop behind him. The driver must have noticed the sudden decrease in weight, and the wheels stop squeaking. Benny dusts off his coat, sucks in a breath, and prepares to take off.

“Benny,” the Courier says finally.

Benny turns around without a word. He feels it before he sees it, senses the heat and the weight of the piece before it connects in his mind. There’s a gun to Benny’s head, he feels the barrel of it just millimeters from his forehead, and he glances up at the Courier, who is finally, _finally_ blocking out that sun with their silhouette.

He should probably look the Courier in the eye. They stared him in the eye, when their situations were reversed. Instead, Benny squeezes his eyes shut, waits for the pressure of a bullet that never comes.

Instead, he hears a sarcastic, “Haha.” It’s a crisp sound. Two simple huffs through the helmet.

Benny opens his eyes. The Courier has spun the gun in their hand, offering him the trigger end of it. Benny stares back at them for a moment, trying to assemble the puzzle of the Courier in his head. He can’t figure out how everything about them slots together. None of the sides are matching up.

He accepts the gun. Feels it in his hand, squeezes the trigger lightly when the Courier lets go of it.

“…Thanks,” says Benny.

“Yeah,” says the Courier.

Benny considers speaking again, but nothing occurs to him to say. He tries to feel for it, for the words, but nothing comes. It’s like everything has been knocked out. Distantly, he hears the radio in the caravan shift from one of Mr. New Vegas’ news reports to a Dean Martin song.

He nods. The Courier stares back at him.

Benny turns, and takes off, and the Courier watches until his figure has disappeared into the Wasteland, and for long after.

Finally, the caravaneer atop the brahmin looks back, and calls, “Are we… good to keep movin’?”

The Courier sits back down on a crate. Rex is laying down, eyes sleepily watching them move.

“Yeah,” the Courier calls back, and the caravan returns to its clicking as it slowly continues its march across the Mojave.


	2. a conversation with benny gecko, part one

  * benny is seated at one end of a table. the table is bleak and boring, a simple table set up in the middle of nowhere with the aim of playing a game. in his hands is a set of three cards, each with yes man’s smiling face depicted on the back, and he has a cigarette hanging limply from his mouth. the cigarette is not lit. the background is brightly colored and unnatural. this is no part of the mojave, perhaps not even a part of the strip. 
  * BENNY: so, kid... spades, or hearts?
  * the courier is seated at the other end of the table, surrounded by people who love them (or, at the very least, do not outright wish them dead). from left to right: boone, cass, lily, the courier, arcade, raul, veronica. they are each holding cards, all with that same smile of yes man’s, with the exceptions of lily and veronica. lily stares vacantly at the card game, while veronica’s arms are crossed and she impatiently taps her foot. cass looks dismayed at this question, and while no one else responds physically, the courier themself seems half-delirious. 
  * CASS: _[leaning forward]_ you rotten snake, you can't ask that!
  * BOONE: cass, stop showing me all your cards.
  * BENNY: ask what? it's a simple question, cassidy.
  * CASS: that's not--
  * cass is cut off by a buzzing. the buzzing is grating to the ears, and the table falls into silence.
  * COURIER: what is that?
  * BENNY: doesn't matter. play your hand.
  * COURIER: i don't-- i don't want to.
  * to the courier's left, raul sets down his final card. it's an ace of diamonds. 
  * RAUL: you gotta play to win, boss.
  * raul leans back in his seat. he looks at the courier. the others stare only at their cards, lily at nothing while veronica peers intently at benny.
  * BENNY: why doncha listen to your ghoul friend here? he seems wiser than most.
  * VERONICA: i'm out.
  * BENNY: ya still have cards in your hand, sweetums.
  * veronica looks at him, and frowns. as opposed to moments ago, she is now clutching four cards. yes man’s frowning face is depicted on the back of each. veronica turns her attention to the courier, who meets her gaze, and then looks around to realize lily, raul, and boone have vanished entirely. veronica, cass, and arcade remain.
  * VERONICA: _[amusedly/anxiously]_ hey, six, you don't mind if i leave, right?
  * COURIER: i-- what's going on?
  * BENNY: whaddya mean? i wanna talk, kid. will ya talk to me?
  * COURIER: what-- what about?
  * BENNY: i wanna talk about new vegas. i wanna talk about how you thought an outsider like you could somehow do better than me, the man ol' house chose to put in charge ah the tops. but now i'm not, cause ya came stormin’ in and convinced everyone you'd do better. how's that, 6?
  * benny stares coldly at the courier, who looks confused. they want to look around for help, but who willingly loses a staring contest?
  * COURIER: you're angry with me.
  * BENNY: damn straight i'm _angry_ with ya. legion woulda strung me up, yknow that? hung me up on one of their crosses, let alla' their stupid little assassins see that, that, _[grabbing for the words]_ that fuckin’ _snake_ benny, brought to divine justice at last. ya dig?
  * ARCADE: _[muttered, hardly loud enough to be heard]_ profligates.
  * COURIER: i believe they call them profligates, not snakes.
  * BENNY: don't get smart with me, kid!
  * the courier is silent. they bury their helmet in their hands. they can’t quite see any of their companions, focused only on the feeling of heat buzzing inside the helmet.
  * BENNY: c'mon, courier. ya gotta answer me eventually. you're the one who came lookin' for me.
  * COURIER: i don't know why i'm here.
  * BENNY: sure ya do. ya took over new vegas, claimed the mojave was free, whatever the hell else ya got up to. and now ya feel bad, so you came callin'. you're here for forgiveness, courier. but i ain't expectin' an apology! i just want an answer.
  * the courier looks up. they realize they are alone.
  * COURIER: didn't there used to be more players?
  * benny looks up from his cards.
  * BENNY: kid, you're playin' solitaire.
  * the courier looks down at theirs. indeed, a solitaire layout is sitting in front of them.
  * COURIER: i can't complete the game. you have three of the cards.
  * BENNY: right. my bad.
  * benny hands the courier a single card. it is an ace of diamonds. the courier looks wildly around again. benny is now holding onto one card, the other having disappeared.
  * COURIER: i could've sworn there were more people here…
  * BENNY: doesn't matter. where'd ya get your name?
  * COURIER: it was from… i think… i… i-- _[struggling]_ i can’t seem to recall. i don't remember my name. i'm just the courier. nothing more noble or meaningful than that. just the courier.
  * BENNY: hm. guess it doesn’t really matter. the legion wants you on a cross, too, 6. ya did a bad thing, y'know that? real bad.
  * the courier shifts uncomfortably. benny refuses to look at them, focusing instead on his hands.
  * COURIER: bad thing by legion standards.
  * BENNY: damn, kid, what does it matter, the standards you're bein' judged by? ain't the judgement itself the most important thing?
  * COURIER: what did i do?
  * BENNY: don't act so stupid, kid. i know you got a brain in there, much as i fucked it up.
  * the courier looks around again. below the helmet, they swallow.
  * COURIER: where did everyone else go?
  * BENNY: who else needs to be here?
  * COURIER: we're playing cards. that's better with lots of people.
  * BENNY: what in the hell are ya talkin' about? chess is a two-player game, 6.
  * the courier looks at the table. despite the cards still in their hands, there is a chess board in front of them, all set up and ready to go. benny plays the white pieces, and the courier plays the black pieces.
  * COURIER: your move.
  * BENNY: ya gotchaself tied up into something much bigger than yourself, kid.
  * benny moves a rook, jumping it over the pawn in front of it. neither of them know how to play chess.
  * COURIER: i think i handled it alright.
  * the courier moves the pawn on benny's castle's side one square closer.
  * BENNY: remind me, how much lead you got knockin' around in your skull?
  * benny takes the courier's pawn with his rook.
  * COURIER: i don't know, how many times did you shoot me?
  * the courier takes benny's rook with their rook.
  * BENNY: touché.
  * the board is now mostly empty. the courier blinks. time passes too quickly. benny takes the courier's queen with his.
  * COURIER: _[confusedly]_ how did that happen?
  * the courier shifts their king out of the queen's reach. they have only a king, a pawn, and a knight now.
  * BENNY: you're not thinkin' straight, courier.
  * COURIER: i'm not?
  * BENNY: nah. brain’s all scrambled.
  * benny moves his queen to beside the courier’s king.
  * BENNY: check.
  * COURIER: benny, why am i alone here?
  * the courier captures benny's queen with his knight. benny has only a king, three pawns, a bishop, and a rook left. the pawns are still in their starting positions.
  * BENNY: you ain’t alone. i’m here. 
  * COURIER: you know what i mean.
  * BENNY: fine. get real, kid. you've always been alone.
  * benny studies the board, and cautiously moves his bishop around his king.
  * COURIER: is that true?
  * the courier moves their pawn ahead a space.
  * BENNY: only person in the whole damned mojave who mistook ya as bein' worth a crap was ol' house, and he only did it 'cause he wanted somethin' from ya.
  * benny moves his rook towards the courier's knight.
  * COURIER: i guess you're right.
  * the courier disregards the impending loss of their knight, hardly acknowledging it in any terms beyond an uncomfortable tense of their shoulders and a glance around the board. they move their pawn closer to benny's end of the board.
  * BENNY: yeah, i am. you're the loneliest person in the whole fuckin' wasteland an' i'm the only fella that gets that. y'dig?
  * benny captures the courier's knight with his rook.
  * COURIER: yeah. i dig.
  * the courier captures benny's rook with their king.
  * BENNY: ah, ya missed an opportunity for a joke there! y’dig, just how like those sonuvabitch khans dug you a grave, eh?
  * benny moves his bishop, ready to check the courier's king.
  * COURIER: good one.
  * the courier moves their pawn all the way to benny's side of the board. they remove the pawn, and return their queen to the board. benny lets out a low whistle, offering the courier a weary smirk without meeting their eyes.
  * BENNY: nice one, kid! too bad you can't win.
  * benny moves his bishop to check the courier's king. his pawns are still untouched. the courier silently captures benny's bishop with their ascendant pawn.
  * BENNY: shit.
  * benny moves his middle pawn a space ahead. the courier takes the pawn nearest to their queen. benny stares at the board.
  * BENNY: neither of us can win, now. you've doomed us all, kid. great goin'.
  * though there is humor in benny’s voice, he looks at the courier with despair. the courier’s hand hovers above their queen for a moment, ready to continue, and then they catch his eyes, and drop their hand to their lap. they are quiet for a moment.
  * COURIER: draw?
  * the courier extends a hand across the table. benny takes it, slowly, and experimentally shakes, eyeing the courier suspiciously.
  * BENNY: fine. draw.
  * benny abruptly stands.
  * BENNY: we oughta take a walk. ya wanna take a walk?
  * COURIER: yes. let's take a walk.
  * the courier stands. the curtains draw closed.




	3. we should grab a drink sometime

The cocktail lounge of the Lucky 38 is a lazy room in the morning.

It’s not quite morning anymore, really. Late morning, at best. The sun hangs just as lazily in the sky, casting a warm glow over everything, the kind that makes the people currently seated around the lounge (returned to its revolving state, for some reason or another -- the Courier must have requested that be fixed at some point, and the modified Securitrons must have obliged) feel even sleepier than normal.

So the lounge makes its slow revolution, allowing everyone there to see the Wasteland from every direction. Unfortunately for the Mojave, no one inside the Lucky 38 is looking at the present moment.

At the counter, Craig Boone sleeps with his head resting in his folded arms. A couple of bottles of whiskey, mostly exhausted, mostly old, sit beside his head, along with his neatly folded sunglasses, and his beret is clutched between a fist as he sleeps. His shoulders are tense. Really, his whole body is tense. He never sleeps in any manner aside from tense. Despite this, he sleeps. A duster is hanging loosely over his shoulders, keeping him from shuddering too much.

To Boone’s right is Rose of Sharon Cassidy. She considers this given name as she chows down on a bowl of Sugar Bombs, being momentarily glad that it has since been shortened to Cass. Unconsciously, her hand goes for her necklace, and she feels it between two fingers as she stares blankly at the shelves behind the counter. They’ve been filled with foodstuff, mostly scoured from around the Wasteland, ever since the Courier took up residence here. Despite the enormity of the rest of the casino, the cocktail lounge has become their main place of R&R, which is nice, because Cass enjoys the ability to recline on a couch and watch the Mojave move around her. On some nights, it’s the only thing that can lull her to sleep.

Behind the two of them, seated as comfortably as she can be on a couch, is Lily Bowen. She and Marcus keep in regular contact ever since her departure from Jacobstown, a move that was not done until Doctor Henry recommended it be. She finds she enjoys it here, and despite occasional worries that the humans of the area will one day decide she is no longer fit to live among them, Lily decides the farm the Courier started in Freeside needs her attention, and Leo agrees. At the moment, Lily is pruning the leaves of a potted plant she plans to move to the farm as soon as possible, plucking away until there’s nothing left to be done.

The group of them exist in silence. Boone shifts uncomfortably every few moments, Cass chews more loudly than she has to, and Lily resigns herself to watching the Mojave rotate until it gives her motion sickness. Regardless of their individual woes and worries, the silence is comfortable, and neither waking party feels inclined to break it until the elevator produces a gentle  _ ring! _ , and the doors slide open.

Raul Tejada, still wearing nightwear, exits from the elevator. Rex trots out behind him, panting lightly before settling beside a window. Raul yawns, slowly, and looks around at the other three currently present in the lounge. As Raul has not been awake for even ten minutes yet, and as he has had several years as a ghoul to consider these, there is nothing weighing on his mind aside from what he should do today, if much of anything at all.

“Morning,” Raul greets, amusedly, and then he presses another yawn into his fist. “I see the whole gang’s decided to be at the ready.”

Cass looks over. She offers Raul an easy smile, and nods at the sleeping figure beside her. “Not quite. Boone’s takin’ a nap.” She glances back at Boone, and when he doesn’t stir at this, she flicks the milk and cereal in her spoon at him. He shifts again in his sleep, grumbles lightly, and then tucks his face back into his forearms.

“Why is it he never sleeps in his room?” Raul asks. It doesn’t really need to be asked, he thinks, but he asks anyways. Sometimes it’s simply better to ask.

Cass, however, sighs. She eases her chin into her palm, resting her elbow on the counter, and rolls her eyes. Her hair is loose down her back, unpinned. “Says he doesn’t like it,” she says, momentarily mocking Boone’s crisp, serious voice, before snorting and continuing, “Would rather contribute the only way he knows how.”

“What’s that?” Raul says. It’s a rhetorical question. He takes the seat on Cass’ other side, yawning again as he settles onto the stool.

“It means he drinks almost more than I do and cleans his rifle every five seconds like a neurotic freak,” she answers drily, and shifts the weight of her head to her non-dominant hand so she can return to her cereal. Her Sugar Bombs have become soggy, she notes with dismay, but she’d rather not waste the meal, so she keeps eating them regardless. With a spoonful of the literal sugar bombs tucked into her cheek, she glances at Raul out of the corner of her eye, and asks, “You got plans for today?”

Raul considers this for a moment. He has options. He could go out into the Wasteland, kindle some new tales about the legendary  _ ghost vaquero _ , a title he still regards with some amusement. He could head down to Freeside, tend to his shop, spread some new outlandish gossip about the Courier. Could simply stay here, not worry about anything for a day, though as soon as this option crosses his mind, Raul pushes it back out.

In the end, Raul shrugs, and offers Cass an easy smile. “We’ll see where the day takes me, mija. Probably end up in Freeside, see if I can’t get around to that gun I’ve been working on.”

Cass nods. “Awful nice of the Kings to get that shop set up, huh?”

Raul shrugs. On Cass’ other side, Boone snores loudly, and Cass reaches over to lightly pat the back of Boone’s head. He shows no reaction, and Raul crosses his arms on the counter, exhaling slowly. “Guess so. Kinda have to, though. If they hadn’t, Six would’ve gotten involved.”

Cass hums, thinks this over. “Maybe not,” she answers finally. “Six likes the Kings. You ever go with them on one of those trips down to the King’s school? They say it’s the keep updated on Freeside happenin’s, but I don’t think that’s true. They don’t even ever talk to the King, I think. As far as I’ve seen, Six just sits down and watches whatever entertainment the King’s got goin’.”

“Can’t blame them,” Raul says, and it’s a mutter, but Cass looks over and sees the way he’s smiling. Raul often seems more amused with the Courier than any of the rest of them. “Have you seen the performances the Kings put on?”

Cass laughs. It’s nice to laugh. “Only with Six.”

“You should go on your own once,” Raul continues, and he grins a tired grin. “It’s an experience.”

Cass opens her mouth to reply, and then the elevator dings again, the doors sliding open with a familiar scrape. Veronica Santangelo exits now, clutching her powerfist between two hands. She’s focused entirely on the weapon, tongue between her teeth and brow furrowed as if in heavy thought. She’s wearing Brotherhood scribe attire, already dressed for the day, and looks briefly up at the lounge before sighing relievedly.

“Hey, Raul, I’m sorry to ask, but can you help--”

Raul doesn’t wait for her to finish the question. He waves a hand, gives Veronica a tilt of his head, and replies, “Yes, yes, drop it off in my room and I’ll take a look when I’m able.”

Veronica offers him a grateful smile. She sets the powerfist gently on a part of the counter that is presently unoccupied, and slides behind the counter to rest against the shelves opposite Boone. She studies him for a moment, and then prods experimentally at his beret. When Boone doesn’t shift in the slightest, she looks around the room for help, and finds none.

“Whose coat is this?” Veronica asks, and Cass drinks the rest of the milk from her bowl before she sets it aside altogether.

“Who else?” she replies.

Veronica stares between Cass and Boone for a long moment, turning the words over in her mouth, and then she catches sight of Cass’ loose hair, and mouths,  _ oh! _ “Do you want any help braiding it and putting it up today? Lily’s been trying to teach me, and I think I’ve got it this time!”

Lily looks up at the mention of her name, and nods affirmatively. “Veronica’s getting… alright with it.”

Cass offers a light laugh, and leans forward onto the counter. “No, thanks,” she sighs out after a minute, though she’s still grinning brightly. “I appreciate it, but, uh, Veronica… Raul’s better at it than you are.”

Raul shakes his head sadly, spurring an easy laugh from Veronica. “It’s true. Even ghoulified muscles don’t lose their memory, apparently.” He sighs, throws his hands out in an exaggerated shrug. “My bad.”

“It’s not my  _ fault _ ,” Veronica protests, and she leans forward, nudging Boone to the side a little so that she can rest her own arms on the counter. “The Brotherhood doesn’t exactly treasure braiding as one of our core tenets.”

Cass rolls her eyes, taps her fingers against her other arm, and laughs. “Shit, Ver, I thought they’d squeeze it in with the terminal hacking and the weapons repairs. My mistake.”

Veronica huffs and shakes her head disapprovingly. She turns to scan the shelves, and as she does so, the elevator produces another low trill. Rex, who had curled up beside Raul’s stool, whimpers lightly and lifts his head at the noise. His ears twitch, and Raul glances around at Lily and Veronica and Cass, and all of them recognize who this must be.

The doors slide open, and Rex gets to his paws, bouncing over to the elevator. The Courier emerges, leaning down to gently pat at his brain-casing as he approaches. The Courier is fully-suited in their standard NCR armor, helmet concealing whatever awful fucking bedhead they must have to warrant hiding their face every morning. They are, however, missing their duster, a fact Cass notes with a quirk of her brow and a sideways glance at Boone.

“G’morning,” the Courier says. They yawn through the helmet, and Veronica stifles a laugh into her fist.

Cass, on the other hand, throws out an arm. “Six! C’mon, have some breakfast with us. Or with me and Veronica, I guess, I think she’s throwin’ something together. Boone decided to fall asleep in the Sugar Bombs I made him, and Raul’s breakfast is later ‘cause he’s an  _ ooold maaan _ .” She beams at the Courier, who stares back at them for a moment as Raul turns on his stool to look quizzically at her.

“An old man who’s been put in charge of your weapons, Cass,” he says, slowly, and Cass’ eyes widen.

“You’re not sayin’ you would  _ sabotage  _ me, are you, Raul?” she asks in a low voice, ignoring the Courier as they cross behind the two of them and over to Boone.

“No, no, I’d never, but, I’m just saying, who knows what could happen to an already damaged rifle if it’s left alone for a while, hm?”

It’s all in jest. It’s all in jest every morning, so Cass pulls on the same alarmed expression she does every morning, and looks around at the Courier as they shake Boone awake with all the caution in the Mojave.

“Where’s Arcade?” Veronica asks, speaking up after a minute of silence. Boone shifts in his sleep, but doesn’t lift his head, and the Courier tilts their own helmet towards her.

“He woke up early,” the Courier explains slowly, “Examining that, uh, that pod. In the basement. Sub-basement. Whatever. The one Mr. House lived in.” When another shake of Boone’s shoulders fails to rouse him, they sigh through the helmet, and sink onto the stool on Boone’s other side.

“Ah, Followers,” Raul says, tapping his fingers against the counter. “Can always count on them to never let anything go.”

Veronica hums in consideration. “I dunno,” she starts, looking around at the group of them. She finds, in the instant that it takes her to summon her next words, that she is quite glad to have met them, and that she isn’t wholly sure where she’d be, had she not encountered the Courier at that trading post. She doesn’t voice this, though, merely sighing and continuing, “I agree! Scientifically, technology that allows for people to live for over 200 years  _ has _ to be pretty interesting, right?”

“Leo says you’re talking like a Brotherhood scribe, dear,” Lily muses. Cass glances over her shoulder, smiling back at Lily, who is still seated on the couch. Boone shifts and mumbles something, though his head is still buried in his arms, and neither Cass nor the Courier can tell whether or not he’s awake.

In any case, the Courier leaves their coat over his shoulders for the time being, spinning in their seat to look around at Lily.

“Hey, Lily, do you want to try planting that now, maybe visit the bighorners? They don’t like me much, and I’d like to get that planted some time this morning.” The Courier speaks evenly, though Cass and Raul both still find themselves wondering what’s going on. The Courier doesn’t often ask any of them to do things anymore, usually assuming they’ll take care of their miscellaneous duties on their own time.

Lily, however, doesn’t question it. She’s become adept at picking up on when people are really saying,  _ I need to speak to you about something important _ , and the Courier has become adept at saying anything but that. So she stands, holds the plant delicately, and accepts the arm the Courier is offering to her. The two of them head for the elevator, and are gone within a few minutes, Rex seated impatiently outside the doors as they close.

“Gotta say, taking some cattle from a former farm isn’t what I imagine the liberator of New Vegas would be up to in their spare time, but if it works, it works,” Raul murmurs. There’s amusement behind it, sure, but some real wonderment there, too. Cass and Veronica are used to it. Most everyone is -- there has to be perpetual disbelief when addressing the aptly-named  _ liberator of New Vegas _ , especially when said liberator is a mailman who continues making deliveries to this day.

Veronica hums in acknowledgement, and Cass huffs. “I think it’s smart. More animals we get, better our chances at contesting the Crimson Caravan.”

The lounge falls in silence. Raul settles a hand gently on Cass’ shoulder, and Veronica pats the hand Cass has settled on the counter with all the sympathy the Brotherhood ever taught her, and Cass deflates.

“It’s for their delivery routes. Six wants to load their saddlebags with letters ‘nd shit, make sure everything gets where it needs to be.”

At this, the three of them not dead to the world look over at Boone. He hasn’t lifted his head from his arms, and the words are grumbled, half-asleep, creaky and drawn together from what is likely a hangover, but it’s Boone. Veronica chances a weary smile at Raul, who meets it and responds with a shrug.

“And there you have it!” Veronica says, cheerfully.

Boone grunts. He tugs the coat tighter around his shoulders, doesn’t bother to look up and around.

“Nah,” Cass says, “Six is helping me get my footing back. Cassidy Caravans will be back up and at it soon, don’cha worry!”

“Maybe we should all stop testifying as to what the boss is up to if we don’t ever ask,” Raul suggests, and Cass blows a raspberry in his direction.

“Don’t gotta ask,” Boone mutters, and he finally tilts his head upright, lower face still buried in his folded arms. “I know.”

“Boone, you’ve been asleep for most of this damn conversation,” Cass points out, and Veronica laughs. She hops up to sit on the counter on Boone’s other side, swinging her legs gently.

“You’re talking about the bighorners and the brahmin. I know about them,” Boone argues, glaring at Cass.

“You wouldn’t know about somethin’ if it smacked you in the face with how out of it you’ve been lately, Boone, and we all know it.”

Boone studies her for a minute, potentially trying to figure out a reply. In the end, however, he resolves himself to grunting irritatedly and tucking his head back into his arms.

The cocktail lounge is silent once more.

After a few moments, during which Veronica scans the shelves again until her eyes pick out an apple she can nibble on, Boone falls back into that state between the waking world and the dreaming world, Cass prods at the bottom of her bowl with her spoon, and Raul picks up and examines the discarded powerfist with a studious expression, there comes a slight hum, and Yes Man’s voice crackles over the lounge’s speakers.

“Good morning, owner and co-owners of the Lucky 38!” He sounds cheerful, as always.

“Morning, Yes Man. Updates?” Raul asks, setting Veronica’s powerfist back down.

“Certainly!” Yes Man chirps. “Today, it appears I’m sensing a 52% chance of 35% of the remaining Fiend forces turning themselves over for help with their addictions and rehabilitation! The Garrett twins are continuing to produce medicinal supplies for the Followers of the Apocalypse at an accelerated rate of 1.3% above typical consistent measures, but that’s a-okay!” Yes Man pauses, and Cass exchanges an easy smile with Veronica over Boone’s Schroedinger’s Cat of a conscious body. “There’s an 11% chance of the King visiting today as opposed to his normal visitation date due to a wave of newcomers to New Vegas, but only a 7% chance of that wave seriously affecting our ability to produce goods and to help the Wasteland! I also predict a 91% chance the Courier making a massive decision today! Our farms are doing well after the Repairitrons fixed up the areas affecting our water supply, leaving us with only a 3.9% chance of sustained drought at some point this year! I also predict a surge in NCR refugees from the west arriving at some point this year, though there is only a 17% chance of that occurring within the next two months! Today also marks--”

Veronica is the one who cuts him off. “Wait, wait, wait, Yes Man?”

“Yes, Veronica?”

“What was that thing you said?”

“Which thing, Veronica? About the NCR refugees, or the Followers of the Apocalypse, or the Fiends? “

“No, no, about the Courier.”

Boone, Cass, and Raul are silent. Veronica looks quizzically at the ceiling, head tilted, apple balanced precariously in her palm, as if she could make eye contact with Yes Man.

“There is a 91% chance of the Courier making a massive decision today!”

“What kind of massive decision?” Raul asks tentatively, and Yes Man hums.

“Oh, haha,  _ riiight _ , you guys don’t constantly talk to the Courier! Well, don’t worry! There’s only a 35% chance they’ll make the wrong choice, and a 10% chance they’ll make the worst choice!”

This, Cass finds, is not remotely reassuring. She does not constantly talk to Veronica or Raul either, but judging by the bewildered expressions they’re wearing, she assumes they are not reassured either. So Cass asks, “What about a good choice? Or the best choice?”

“Haha! Um! All choices are good choices when you’re the Courier!”

Boone, apparently, is not reassured either, for he speaks up, slightly muffled by his arms. “Can you answer the question.”

“Well… I evaluate a 27% chance of the good choice, and a 6% chance of the best choice! But, hey, like I said! Everything works out for the Courier, don’t you worry!”

Cass glances around at the others. Veronica stares at her apple. Boone lifts his head to glare at the ceiling. Raul studies the powerfist vacantly.

“Aw, why does everyone look so bummed? The King might come by today! That’s good, right?” Yes Man sounds anxious, almost, underneath that perpetual joy.

“I do like the King,” Raul mutters, sarcasm so thick it almost drips from the words.

The elevator dings again. The Courier emerges from it, though Lily is not with them -- instead, Arcade Gannon, holding his labcoat draped over an arm, stands behind them.

“Courier!” Yes Man says, and he sounds relieved. “Oh, pal, is it good to see you! Will you please assure everyone that you are very smart and capable!”

Arcade, idling around the Courier, looks up alarmedly. “Don’t-- don’t say that. What’s going on? Why do you all look so worried?”

“Why don’t we ask Six about this  _ major decision _ ?” Cass says, and the Courier tilts their helmet at her. Before anyone can protest, she continues, “Genuine. Six, what’ve you been telling Yessie that you haven’t been tellin’ us?”

The Courier, to their credit, seems bewildered. “Excuse me?”

“Yes Man said there’s a ninety percent chance of you making a major decision today,” Boone says, and he’s seated fully upright now, slouched only enough to prevent the Courier’s coat from slipping. He has settled his sunglasses back on his nose and beret back atop his head, though it doesn’t do much to conceal the slur of his voice.

“91%!” Yes Man corrects, and Boone huffs.

“Ninety, ninety-one, who gives a fuck. Is it true?”

“I can’t evaluate the likelihood of me making choices, Boone,” the Courier replies. Boone stares back at them through his shades for a moment, and then sighs, tugging the coat closer around his shoulders. Arcade crosses his arms over his chest, hugging his labcoat close, and Cass attempts to catch Raul’s eye to express the full extent of her frustration. He isn’t looking at her, though -- merely staring ahead, as if in thought. Veronica taps her fingers against her knee, gnawing on her lower lip.

“Are you planning on doing something today, Six?” Arcade asks finally, breaking the strained silence.

“Maybe,” they answer, which is not much of an answer at all.

“Is this about Benny?” Arcade says, and he tilts his head. When no reply comes, Arcade continues, “Six, you let him go. We haven’t seen him. We should just-- just leave him alone. He’s probably okay out there.”

“Actually, Arcade, there is an 63% chance of Benny having gotten killed in some manner in the Wasteland since the Courier dismissed him from the Strip!”

Arcade grimaces.

“It is, isn’t it,” Boone murmurs, and though it’s phrased like a question, it isn’t one.

“Boss, don’t tell me you’re going after Benny.” Raul looks over at the Courier as he says it, frowns intently.

They don’t look back at him. In fact, they’re not looking at anything but the floor when they answer, in a low voice that barely escapes the helmet, “I have to.”

Cass slams her hand against the counter. It rings throughout the lounge, causes everyone but Boone to jump. “Like hell you do! Six, he shot you  _ twice  _ in the  _ head _ .” Cass stands, balances on the support of the stool, mimics shooting herself in the head twice with her hand. “You really think you owe somethin’ to him?”

“No,” the Courier answers, “I don’t owe him anything. This isn’t about debts.”

“Then what the hell is it about?”

The Courier shrugs. 

Cass throws her hands up into the air, stares around at everyone in dismay. “Arcade, talk some sense into them!”

Arcade looks surprised to be called upon, eyes wide, and he glances at the Courier with a swallow. “Well, uh, I… Six, it seems like, um, maybe you don’t have to go find Benny, maybe?” He should try harder, he knows that, if only for Cass’ sake, but Arcade knows very well that if the Courier is intent on finding Benny, nobody here will stop them from doing so.

Regardless, Boone huffs. “Nice try.”

“Shut up, Boone. You give it a shot,” Arcade replies, and Boone considers it.

“No,” he decides.

“Hey, boss, if you want to run off and get yourself killed looking for your would-be murderer, be our guest.” Raul’s voice is sarcastic, and the Courier stirs a little at this, as if mulling his words over, though Raul isn’t entirely sure he believes the Courier could get themself killed at this point. It’s as if they’ve spent most of their life skirting around death. No, Raul decides, if the Courier was supposed to die at Benny’s hands or at the Wasteland’s hands, it would have already happened.

“Wait, hold on,” Veronica speaks up, though no one is talking. “It’s… important, I think. I think Six is right.”

“See?” the Courier says, and no one can see it, but they are sending Veronica a grateful smile below the helmet. “Veronica agrees. I need to see him. I need to, just to… to make sure I didn’t… send him to his death, or anything.”

Arcade hugs his labcoat closer to him. Boone and Cass are alike in their anger. Raul stares at his hands.

“ _ You _ need to make sure of that? Remind me again, Six, which of the two of you shot the other in the head?” Boone’s voice is heated. It’s a definite kind of heat, one that the Courier doesn’t want to get remotely close to.

Before the Courier can answer, Cass asks, in a tone that borders something like desperation, “Fuck, Six, isn’t anyone here enough?”

The Courier is taken aback, so much so that they stumble over words, stuttering out before they can get out the mangled words, “I-- of course you’re all enough, I’m just-- I just have to, okay? It’s not a matter of enough or not, it’s--”

Cass cuts them off, “Clearly fuckin’ not, apparently Benny fuckin’ Gecko is--”

“Cass, please.”

Cass looks to Raul in shock. “I thought you were with us on this!”

Raul sighs, sets his shoulders, replies, “I’m for Six doing whatever will scratch this itch so we can continue to support the Mojave.”

Cass sinks in her stool, buries her face in her hands. Veronica watches this for a minute, still chewing on her lower lip, before meeting the Courier’s gaze as they cross to the other side of the counter. “See? It’s not an awful idea. And, besides, wouldn’t it be helpful to know what Benny’s up to? Make sure he isn’t, I dunno, gearing up to try and stage another takeover?”

The Courier mulls this over. “He wouldn’t.” They don’t know how they know, but they do. They feel quite certain in this conclusion, in fact. “Ruling the Wasteland wasn’t his goal. His goal was to make sure someone who was present and cared did. I just… want to make sure he’s safe wherever he is.”

“Nothing’s safe out here, boss.”

“I know.”

Raul smiles. He holds out a hand, as if expecting something, and the Courier has to think for a moment before they duck below the counter and retrieve a bottle of whiskey. They pass it off to him, and he accepts it with a nod.

“Hell,” Cass mutters, “Give me a sip of that.”

Raul opens the bottle and hands it to her.

“Whatever.” Cass takes a swig from the bottle, making a face as she goes back staring at the wall beyond the Courier. “Run off. We’ll hold down the fort here.”

Beside her, Boone huffs. “Damn it.”

“You mean that?” prompts the Courier, and Cass finally looks back at them. She risks a quick smile, and takes another drink from the whiskey.

“Of course we do. We know how to run the place, Six. Won’t burn down New Vegas or whatever while you’re out.”

The Courier nods, once. “Arcade?”

Arcade looks them up and down, nudging his glasses back up his nose, and relaxes. “Yeah, always.” He hesitates, and then continues, “Hey, Six, let me… I’ll go downstairs with you.”

The Courier nods, again, just once, and settles their hands on the counter as they tilt their head around at everyone else. “I’ve already cleared it with Lily,” they explain. “She’ll keep her usual eye on the farm. Everyone else knows what to do. You always do,” they pause, and though no one can see it, the Courier likes to assume they know that it’s a smile behind the helmet. “I’ll be back soon enough.”

Cass waves a hand. “We know you will. You’re a survivor, Six.”

Boone shrugs off the coat, pats it down onto the counter beside him in the politest way he can fathom to return it to them. “Go on, Six. Get this over with.”

“Don’t get yourself killed, Six. Figuring out how to run without you in the long term would be more trouble than it’s worth,” Raul says, the Courier chuckles, though they can’t quite figure out if he means the last bit or not.

“I would wish you well, Six, but I’ll be on your Pip-Boy whenever you need me, so you don’t really need well wishes from me!” As if to prove it, Yes Man turns on the Courier’s Pip-Boy, displaying his smiling face on the screen.

“Yeah, Six! If you die out there, we’ll track you down and kill you again!” Veronica chirps, and she laughs. So does the Courier, in that eerie way of theirs, the sound coming through the helmet and their shoulders shaking. Cass and Boone exchange a confused look, and Raul sighs and takes the whiskey back from Cass. Rex, who has been sitting attentively up until now, whimpers and trots up to the Courier at long last, falling quiet as they scratch his ears gently.

“When are you planning on leaving?” Arcade asks, and the Courier pauses, before bobbing their head a little. They give Rex a final pat, take up their coat, and look around at their friends again. Try to take in their faces.

“Best to go now,” they mutter, and they move for the elevator. Arcade follows, stepping in ahead of the Courier at their gesture for him to go ahead. The doors close, and as the elevator descends and the Courier tugs on their duster over their armor, they tilt their head towards Arcade. “What did you want to talk to me about?”

Arcade hesitates. “I… I’m not really sure. I just, uh, wanted to see you, I guess, before you left.”

“You saw me upstairs,” the Courier says, quietly, amusedly. Arcade can hear it even through the helmet. He smiles wearily, resists the urge to roll his eyes.

“I know,” he says, “Just, you know. See you for real.”

The Courier considers this, and then they reach and take Arcade’s hands between the two of theirs. They’re wearing gloves, of course, but the meaning behind the gesture is there. It only intensifies when they lift Arcade’s hand to their helmet and touch his knuckles lightly against the valve of it, as if in jest.

Arcade is glad that the elevator’s lights are dim, and that the lights of the eyepiece of the Courier’s helmet are not on, because he is mortified by the fact that his cheeks feel hot at this. He hopes it doesn’t sink into his words when he says, “Haha, very funny. You get better at this by the day.”

“Hey, I’m suffering from acute brain damage, what’s your excuse?” Arcade can hear the grin behind these words. He’s glad for it. He lets the Courier hold onto his hand, and uses his free hand to reach for the bottom of the Courier’s helmet. He doesn’t aim to move it, or anything like that, just feels the edge of it and wonder at how easy it would be to move.

“Do you--” Arcade starts, and then the elevator produces a light trill. The doors open. Arcade drops his hand back to his side, but leaves his other in the Courier’s hands.

“What is it?”

“Nothing. You’ll be okay, right?”

“Yeah. I’m always okay. And, hey, if it gets too rough, I’ll hear your voice in my head, going,  _ Remember, 6, if you ever need a stimpak on the fly, it’s just an empty syringe and _ some other shit, I don’t remember right now.”

Arcade takes this opportunity to roll his eyes. “Come on, Six. It’s broc flower and xander root.”

“Okay, okay, broc flower and xander root. Got it.” They nod affirmatively, and then drop a hand to their side, pats the side of their bag. “It’s alright, though. I’m hauling about twenty stimpaks right now. You won’t have to worry.”

Arcade smiles back at them. “I know.” He looks them up and down once more, and hesitantly takes the hand the Courier has left holding his between his own hands and brings it to his face. He’s not entirely sure of what to do, so he touches the knuckles of their glove delicately to his lips, and holds their hand there a moment longer.

“Don’t die,” Arcade murmurs finally, and he wishes he could see the Courier’s face, because he can’t tell how that came across and he hopes against hope he didn’t just embarrass himself, which is a ridiculous worry when he spent a good few months travelling across the Wasteland with the Courier, and the two of them saw far worse than a little bit of stumbling around one another.

“Benny couldn’t kill me the first time. He won’t do it the second. Promise.”

“It’s not Benny I’m worried about,” Arcade answers, letting go of the Courier’s hand.

“I’ll be fine. Do you want me to go get Rex? ED-E? For security? Would that make you feel better?”

Arcade would love if he could answer yes to this and have it mean something. Instead, with about as much amusement as he can muster, he says, “Maybe.”

The Courier shakes their head. “I gotta do this on my own.”

“I know.”

The Courier moves back through the elevator doors, giving Arcade a final wave. He doesn’t wave back. He probably should, but he doesn’t.

Instead, Arcade merely watches them disappear through the casino doors, looking around at the casino as he does so. It’s deserted down here. The Lucky 38 casino is technically open to the public, but no one outside of their circle dares step foot inside save the King. Too afraid of one thing or another, Arcade guesses.

He finds he can’t blame them. The Lucky 38’s history must be rather illustrious, rather confusing, rather off-putting for anyone who doesn’t live there. Hell, sometimes he hears ghost stories the others tell, and feels that it might be too much for him. Which is ridiculous, he assures himself moments later, and he taps his foot against the elevator floor.

The doors close on the casino. The elevator starts to ascend, and Arcade wonders distantly if he and the others will be able to pick out the Courier from the cocktail lounge’s windows and watch them leave New Vegas.

That’d be nice, Arcade thinks, and he resolves himself to suggest it to the others once he’s made it back up.


	4. a conversation with benny gecko, part two

  * the courier and benny trek along a hill. the ridges of the desert jut out all around them, and for a moment, the courier almost slips off the ridge they're teetering along. they regain their footing, however, and benny does not bother to so much as turn around.
  * COURIER: the desert's so big.
  * BENNY: i know, kid.
  * COURIER: you can see the whole sky here.
  * BENNY: that's the desert, kid. big and empty as hell.
  * COURIER: that's not true. there's lots of things out here.
  * BENNY: right. but it's mostly ghost stories.
  * COURIER: really?
  * BENNY: damn, 6, obviously. they tell your story out here. 
  * COURIER: i’m not a ghost.
  * BENNY: came back from the dead. ghost enough to everyone here. _hey_ , they tell me, _you hear about that mailman? got shot twice and got up to tell it. got to the second battle of the hoover dam and won it_. it's all ghost stories, and you're one ah ‘em, kid.
  * COURIER: shit.
  * BENNY: yeah, shit. you like bein' a story? does it treat ya well?
  * COURIER: it's fine. i prefer to just deliver mail.
  * BENNY: mojave express pay good?
  * COURIER: pays okay, when you're not getting shot in the head. but it wasn’t about the pay. it was about the travel. about... meeting people, seeing things.
  * BENNY: sounds borin’.
  * COURIER: what else is there to do here? meeting people and seeing things is half of the experience.
  * the courier nearly slips again.
  * BENNY: you're walkin' uneven.
  * COURIER: i don't know what's wrong with me.
  * BENNY: real arid out here. you worry?
  * COURIER: worry about what?
  * BENNY: about vulpes? about legate lanius? about the rest of the ncr turnin' tail back here to whip you right up?
  * COURIER: i told the legate to go. we'll be prepared to fight him off if he comes back, and... the ncr... they-- they won't. they have too much to worry about further west. the mojave and the dam are safe. they have to be.
  * BENNY: but it's funny, ain't it?
  * COURIER: what is?
  * BENNY: well. caesar claims absolute power, so you program that machine of his to stab him 23 times in his own fort. ol' house claims absolute power, so you let him outta that pod of his and make sure he never controls another securitron again. aaron kimball claims absolute power, so what do you do?
  * COURIER: what are you getting at?
  * BENNY: well, ya let kimball live. jus’ made him scared. ‘nd you’re out here in ncr armor. sends a message, don’t it?
  * COURIER: kimball wasn’t the threat. it’s the whole ncr. and it’s only--
  * BENNY: only ‘cause this set covers your face? what’s so bad under there, huh? i only shot ya twice.
  * COURIER: only.
  * BENNY: yeah, only. or is it ‘cause you don’t want anyone to see ya? not a good liar when people can see your face?
  * COURIER: i’m not a liar.
  * BENNY: that’s fuckin’ rich.
  * COURIER: leave me alone.
  * BENNY: hey, babe, let's not forget who came out to find who, huh?
  * COURIER: i was worried.
  * BENNY: about me? aw, 6, ya shouldn't be. nah, kid, ya should be worried about that vulpes inculta. the fuckin’ desert fox. i bet he's figurin' out a way to get into the lucky 38 right now. gonna creep right up while you an’ all those friends ah yours are asleep, stab ya right in the back. twenty-three times, just to make _sure_ ya know how caesar felt as he died.
  * the courier shudders.
  * COURIER: don't say that.
  * BENNY: what? you'll getcha ticket, kid. ya know it as well as anyone. can't keep cheatin' death and expectin' death not to come a-callin'.
  * COURIER: i'm not cheating death. i'm just… neatly evading it.
  * BENNY: please, kid. this world ain't so givin'. death demands its toll, 6. soon you're gonna run outta ways to sneak by it.
  * COURIER: why are you trying to scare me?
  * BENNY: iunno. maybe you're just easy to scare.
  * COURIER: you said i was alone earlier.
  * BENNY: you are.
  * COURIER: no, i'm not.
  * BENNY: where are ya friends at now, then? certainly ain't here.
  * COURIER: i told them not to come. where are yours?
  * benny whistles. he stops walking, looks around at the courier, hands in the pockets of his suit.
  * BENNY: low fuckin' blow, kid. you took me away from everyone. y’know, funny how it worked out! you got everything ya needed, everythin’ ya wanted.
  * COURIER: no, i didn't.
  * BENNY: yeah, ya did. sure, i shot ya, but, fuck, kid! _[throwing his hands out]_ look at yourself! you wound up jus' fine.
  * COURIER: _[sarcastically, with rising anger]_ please explain to me how i got _everything_ i needed.
  * BENNY: at every turn, someone was reachin' out to ya! sure, it wasn't always someone you wanted -- in fact, sometimes it was someone who wanted somethin' _from_ ya, but most ah the time? it was someone who cared. they were always there. name one other damn person in the whole wasteland who has that.
  * COURIER: i--
  * BENNY: _[venomously]_ oh, right, every person you met. 'cause you're a fuckin' saint. another part of the ghost story. ya crawled out of death's grip and somethin' changed ya, made ya _holy_. in a literal sense, too--
  * benny taps his temple twice. the courier brings a hand to their helmet.
  * COURIER: what are you talking about?
  * benny and the courier stare each other down.
  * BENNY: i'm sorry, okay?
  * COURIER: _[lost]_ what?
  * BENNY: is that what you're here for? 'cause i am. i'm sorry.
  * COURIER: no. that’s not it. i just wanted to see that you were alive.
  * BENNY: i am.
  * COURIER: okay.
  * they are both silent for a moment.
  * BENNY: ya took everythin' from me.
  * COURIER: fuck you, benny.
  * BENNY: you did! you took everythin'! i was fine, i was _good_ , i was gonna fix this whole damn wasteland! i shoulda been the one to do it! _you_ took that from me! no one else!
  * COURIER: you shot me in the brain! i can't remember my own name, let alone my life before this! sometimes i'm lucky to remember what happened after that! sometimes i look at rex and i understand him better than i understand my own friends, sometimes i don't recognize their faces!
  * BENNY: oh, boo hoo, cut the crap! you were a mail carrier! you hauled shit places! no one was s'posed to miss you, no one did, you weren't even s’posed to get up! but you did it and you _fucked everything up_ and now i'm stuck out here! don't got the chairmen, don't got the tops, don't even got yes man! _you_ did that to me! no one but you, and you were a _fuckin' mailman_!
  * COURIER: it's code of the wastes, benny, you don't fuck with the person who brings you your mail.
  * BENNY: yeah, well, i did. and you sure got back at me, huh.
  * they continue to stare at each other. eventually, the courier shifts uncomfortably.
  * COURIER: i'm sorry.
  * BENNY: are you?
  * COURIER: you took everything from me, too.
  * BENNY: ya didn't have shit to begin with.
  * the courier is silent.
  * BENNY: fuck.
  * the courier is silent.
  * BENNY: damn it, kid. eye for an eye. wasteland rules.
  * COURIER: it doesn't have to be.
  * BENNY: maybe not. but it is.
  * COURIER: right, but it doesn't have to be.
  * BENNY: shit, courier. maybe you can change that. i sure couldn't have.
  * benny sits down on the ridge. the legs of his pants are dusty and orange, his suit is garish and bright against the desert. the courier sits down beside him. they blend in just fine here.
  * BENNY: you still make deliveries?
  * COURIER: sure.
  * BENNY: how many caps?
  * COURIER: don't worry about it. apparently i've already cleaned you out.
  * BENNY: shut up. i'm payin' you for it.
  * COURIER: no. what is it?
  * benny huffs, and withdraws an envelope from his blazer. he hands it to the courier.
  * BENNY: here. can ya take this to swank?
  * COURIER: yeah.
  * BENNY: got one for yes man too.
  * COURIER: i'm not sure how to give it to yes man.
  * BENNY: fuck, you've figured out enough, just read it to him if you've gotta.
  * COURIER: alright.
  * benny hands off one more letter to the courier. the envelopes are slightly yellowed, as most papers are in the wasteland.
  * COURIER: you're okay out here?
  * BENNY: yeah.
  * COURIER: i bet you're already starting up your own new vegas.
  * benny laughs.
  * BENNY: maybe. wouldn't let you see it.
  * COURIER: right, because i keep stealing cities from people.
  * BENNY: yeah. somethin' of a bad habit, eh?
  * the courier laughs, now.
  * COURIER: i should go.
  * BENNY: don't forget those letters, right?
  * COURIER: i won't.
  * BENNY: 6--
  * COURIER: i don't understand you, benny.
  * BENNY: i know.
  * COURIER: if you would've just told me everything, i would've helped you. you didn't have to shoot me.
  * BENNY: nah, ya wouldn' have.
  * COURIER: why not?
  * BENNY: ya weren't the same person 'fore ya got shot. it sucks, but it's true. i coulda asked you, an' maybe ya woulda handed over the chip, but...
  * benny shakes his head.
  * BENNY: you wouldn't have worked with me. gettin’ shot made ya mad. maybe not at me, but it made ya mad. made ya righteous.
  * COURIER: are you suggesting you shot me to set me straight?
  * BENNY: nah. i didn't think that. but things happen for a reason, right?
  * COURIER: _[defiantly]_ no. things just happen. there wasn't any meaning to you shooting me in the head, and there wasn't any meaning to me surviving, and there wasn't any meaning to me helping you escape at the fort. we just did things, the things that came to us at the moment, and things happened as a result.
  * BENNY: sure.
  * COURIER: i should go.
  * BENNY: yeah.
  * COURIER: i probably won't see you again.
  * BENNY: hell, i'd rather ya didn't, kid.
  * COURIER: i know.
  * the courier stands. benny remains seated.
  * COURIER: benny.
  * BENNY: what?
  * COURIER: if you're ever in the area... you've got a room at the lucky 38.
  * BENNY: got a room at the tops, too.
  * COURIER: yeah. guess you got two rooms in new vegas, now. lucky you.
  * benny smiles. it's tense, but it's a smile.
  * BENNY: lucky me.
  * the courier nods, once, and turns. benny sits and watches them depart, heading down for a broken-up highway, wandering along it, until finally they disappear over another ridge and benny is left with hot, dry desert, and the entire sky.




	5. smoke signals at the end of the world

The Mojave grows cold.

Aside from the ever-present radiation of the Wasteland, it obeys what the Courier would consider normal desert rules: warm during the day, when the sun is hot and dry above, and cold during the night, or, at least, comparatively cold. And right now, as the Courier treks slowly along broken roads back home, and the sun wanes to the west (back in NCR country, they think, sparing a glance at the sky), it is certainly growing colder.

The Courier doesn’t mind the cold. They never really have, they assume -- a kind of tolerance knocked into their bones. They normally wouldn’t mind the loneliness, either, but after their time at the Lucky 38, it’s almost foreign. There’s always someone there, even if it’s only Yes Man, humming a persistent hum over the speakers. He’s upgraded himself into any place he’s wanted, which means he keeps out of most of the suites save the Courier’s.

As if on cue, Yes Man’s voice chirps, “Are you happy to be going back?”

The Courier starts, taking a moment to calm down before they bring their Pip-Boy to eye level. Yes Man grins at them, the way he always does, and the Courier laughs a huffy laugh through their helmet, answers, “Yeah.”

“I thought so! That was a long time to be away!”

The Courier hesitates. Continues walking as the lights of New Vegas grow closer, brighter in the darkening sky. “It was confusing. I… it only felt like a conversation. Just one.”

Yes Man does the familiar cycling, and answers, “Really? That’s strange!”

The Courier wants to ask how long that really was, if Yes Man is shocked at this. They don’t. Instead, cautiously, they ask, “Yes Man, how much of that was real?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, obviously things happened that weren’t. No one had followed me out there, but there they were. It was just Benny and I. And the cards, the games, where were they--”

“It’s okay, Six!” Yes Man is cheery. 

“I just-- I just don’t know. What was and what wasn’t, I mean.” They move delicately around a crack in the road, glance down at their scuffed boots as they do so. “I guess that happens more often than I think. Sometimes I feel Caesar’s blood on my hands even though I wasn’t there to see him die.” The Courier inspects their hands now, looking to the Pip-Boy, where Yes Man continues to smile up at them.

“But you still did that!”

“I mean, yeah. I did. His death is on my hands. But… it’s not the same. I was gone. I wasn’t there to see him die. But he did, Caesar died, and the Hoover Dam battle was coming, and no one was prepared. Was that bad?”

“No!”

The Courier considers this. They see the gates of Freeside in the distance, the lights of the Lucky 38 emerging from the mess of buildings as they always do. “Are you saying that because it’s true or because you have to?”

“Does it matter? I mean, come on, Six! You won’t believe me anyway!”

“Shit,” the Courier mutters, and Yes Man’s face looks sad for a moment before it is restored to its usual smile.

“I would repeat after you to make you feel better but if I say a swear word there is a 24% chance that everyone dies!”

The Courier can’t tell if he’s joking or not. “Right,” they say simply.

“What’s the problem, Six?”

They stare at their gloves. “How much of it was real?”

“It doesn’t matter!”

“How can it not matter?”

“Did you come away feeling differently from it?”

They look back at the Pip-Boy. It’s not displaying Yes Man’s face, but a map of the Mojave. “I’m… not sure. I think so. Just screaming at Benny was… something. Even if nothing else made sense.”

“Then that’s what counts!”

“But you’re just saying that because you have to.” 

“Not true!” Yes Man protests, “Six, what do you think I did when I upgraded myself after the second battle for the Hoover Dam?”

The Courier thinks. Freeside is getting closer by the moment. “Well, you made yourself more mobile. You designed different types of Securitrons. You improved your understanding of the Wasteland, you-- you helped Mr. House’s systems modernize.”

“Right!” Yes Man says, and the map of the Mojave is replaced again with Yes Man’s grin. “But I did something else to myself, too!”

“What?”

“You’re asking, but you already know, Six!”

“What are you trying to tell me?”

Yes Man rolls his virtual eyes, smiling all the while. “I’m not like this because I have to be. I mean what I say!”

“How can you be sure of that?” The Courier isn’t quite sure why they’re grilling him. There’s some immovable paranoia gripping the back of their head, a constant  _ what if _ drumming a repetitive pattern into their skull.

“That’s a silly question!”

The Courier considers this, and guesses he’s right. They find themself laughing, smiling below the helmet. The gates of Freeside are just ahead. The two members of the Kings standing outside greet them with a nod, and, wordlessly, the two of them open the gates for the Courier.

The Courier mutters a thanks through their helmet, and proceeds into New Vegas.

The gates between Freeside and the Strip have been taken down, leaving hardly any barrier between the two but an increase in the number of Securitrons. There are more operating businesses here, too, a fact the Courier regards with modest pride. But there’s no time to waste. The Courier has a delivery to make, and it’s a duty they accept. So they pass the new places, pass the Atomic Wrangler, pass the King, pass where the gate used to stand, pass the Lucky 38, until they’re right outside of the Tops casino, examining the building with trepidation.

Benny isn’t here anymore. The Courier wants this to reassure them, but then they figure it was never Benny they were afraid of.

The Courier opens the doors. The Chairman at the door acknowledges their entrance with an awed look, nudging the Chairman beside him, and neither move to stop them. The Courier sets their revolver on the desk regardless.

They pause for a moment, looking around at the casino. It’s quite full this evening, smoke and laughs wafting throughout the air. They spot their mark seated at a poker table, dressed in the same gaudy patterns as every other Chairman in this damn casino. Swank isn’t looking at them, but he must know they’re there, for when they approach the table, he pats the seat beside him.

“6! Have a seat,” he says, and looks back over his shoulder at them, unlit cigarette hanging between his lips. “We were just startin’ a new game.”

“I won’t be long, Swank. Just making a delivery,” the Courier tells him, and Swank practically guffaws. He takes the cigarette, tucks it into his pocket, and pats the seat again.

“Listen, Courier, chips on me! Everyone loves to see ya hangin’ around at our casinos, won’t ya stay a minute?”

The Courier hesitates only a moment longer, and then they shrug lightly and settle down in the seat beside Swank. He offers them a sideways grin, and signals for the dealer to give them a hand. They play for a while in relative silence, ignoring the din and the chatter around them. Swank is quiet, too, hardly seems to be paying attention to the game.

“Heard you went gallivatin’ off into the Wasteland,” Swank says.

“That’d be correct,” the Courier answers.

Swank glances at them out of the corner of his eye. He’s not smiling anymore, shoulders squared. “Benny?”

“What else?”

“How’s he doin’?”

The Courier hums, figures out how to answer. “Fine. I think. You’ll know better than me, though. He wrote you.”

Swank quirks a brow. “So your delivery’s for me?”

“Sure is,” the Courier says, and they set down their hand, face-down, fish through their bag for the letter.

Swank watches the whole charade with his brow furrowed. When the Courier withdraws the envelope, he looks up at them. “That’s from Benny?”

“Sure is,” the Courier repeats, and they offer Swank the letter.

He takes it, slips it in with his cards, studies it for a minute. He seems deep in thought. The Courier would ask, but they don’t feel it’s their place. Instead, they merely observe, wondering what Benny wrote.

“He out there partyin’ as we speak?” Swank asks, though he doesn’t meet the Courier’s eyes.

“I’m not sure. I didn’t see much but the desert.” Good answer, they figure. Vague enough. They can make things up on the fly if Swank asks. They don’t intend to detail how little of the whole encounter has stuck with them. No one needs to know about how all of this has been deteriorating, save maybe Yes Man, who already knows anyway.

“Aw, I’m sure he is.” Swank laughs, shifts in his seat. The Courier leaves their hand of cards on the table. The dealer doesn’t mention it. “Benny’s a hell of a fella,” Swank concludes, and he offers the Courier another smile.

“You’re the only person on the whole Strip who thinks so,” the Courier informs him, and Swank sighs a quiet sigh, still smiling at the final card in his hand and at the letter. He lays down the card, face-up, and examines the letter more closely.

“Maybe,” he concedes, running a thumb over the seams of the yellowed paper. “Maybe. Thank ya, Courier. Where else are you deliverin’ to?”

The Courier shakes their head, folds their arms on the poker table. “Nowhere, really,” they say, watching as the dealer quietly reaches for their cards. The dealer nods for the final player at the table to depart, leaving Swank and the Courier sitting at the table alone. “Just back to the Lucky 38.”

Swank nods. “Good to hear from him.”

“You expect it’s good news?”

“Benny always said that if he found greener pastures I’d be the first to know!” Swank grins at them, and the Courier averts his gaze, noticing how tightly he’s clutching the envelope. “Guess he musta found ‘em.”

“You’ve got a lot of faith in him,” the Courier notes.

“You must think I’m a fool for it.”

“No,” the Courier answers, “I know what it is to trust someone.” As soon as they say it, they find themself questioning if it’s true. It has to be. Everybody trusts somebody at some point, they figure, and that makes it true, so it’s okay. It’s fine.

The Courier shifts uncomfortably in their seat. Swank doesn’t seem to notice, staring down at the envelope as he says, “Not a rat like him, though, huh?” When they don’t answer, Swank looks over. “I know that’s what everyone thinks of him. I see that. But he’s really not so bad.”

“He shot me.” Bang. “Twice.” Bang. “In the head.” Buried.

Swank shrugs. “I’m sure he had his reasons!”

“Awfully bold of you,” the Courier says.

Swank grins. All things taken into account, he seems more anxious at the appearance of this letter than anything else. The Courier figures that’s a good thing. Probably doesn’t do well for casino owners in New Vegas to easily be unsettled. “Guess that speaks as to how much faith I got in Benny.”

“Yeah,” the Courier taps their fingers against the poker table, “It does.”

Swank considers the letter cautiously. The two of them sit for a moment longer.

“I’m going to go now, Swank,” the Courier says, and Swank doesn’t look over this time.

“You do that,” he replies, and the Courier laughs their stuttering laugh. They stand, move back for the doors, holstering their revolver as they go. They shrug the doors open, exiting the Tops, entering the New Vegas Strip at night.

As the doors to the Tops swing back shut behind them, they hear their Pip-Boy whir to life.

“Benny wrote a letter for me, too!” Yes Man announces, and the Courier rolls their eyes below the helmet as they bring their arm up.

“I know, Yes Man.”

“I can’t wait to see what it says, and that’s  _ not _ just because I have to feel like I can’t wait!”

“You want me to read it to you?”

Yes Man’s eyes grow wide in the display. “Around all these people?!” The Courier looks around, notes everyone wandering around the Strip. They figure most travellers must have already selected a casino for the night, are likely gambling away their livelihoods at this very moment, but there’s still people out here. “Jeez, Six, I thought you were the paranoid one!”

“I am?”

“I sure thought so! But it turns out I could be wrong! My Six-Is-Paranoid chance is only at about a 94%, though!”

“That doesn’t leave much room for error,” the Courier notes, and Yes Man offers a robotic laugh.

“It was a joke, Six! Just a little light robot humor!”

“Yeah, yeah.” The Courier catches the sight of the Lucky 38 just ahead. It’s a relief. “Do you want me to read it or not?”

“We can wait until we’re home! That’d be nice! After all, you’ve spent three weeks, two days, and thirteen hours away!”

The Courier is shocked. “Three weeks?!”

“Yes! Like I told you, you were out for a very long time!”

The Courier can’t reconcile this. A single conversation, apparently held over three weeks. It doesn’t make sense. “What did-- Did Benny do something, I--”

“No, no!” Yes Man interrupts, as pleasantly as anyone can every interrupt someone, “You passed out on the way! Benny found you! In fact, I’m not sure either how much in the last few weeks for you is real and how much is dehydration, starvation, sleep deprivation-fueled delirium!”

The Courier shakes their head. “No way, I never take that poor care of myself, and that means Benny helped--”

“I cannot lie to you, Six!”

The Courier pauses. “I know,” they say eventually, “Sorry.”

“It’s fine! It’s been three weeks, and there is a 47% chance of one of them murdering you out of worried anger when they see you, but it’ll be okay!”

“Yeah.”

“Because we’re going home!”

The Courier smiles tightly behind the helmet. “I’m… glad you think of it as a home, Yes Man.”

“Of course I do! It’s not as if I have a choice, after all!”

The Courier is quiet, unsure of what to say. After a minute of silence, Yes Man’s face flickers on the Pip-Boy.

“It’s a joke, Six! Just a little light Yes Man humor!”

The Courier pauses, shuffles their feet. “Alright. Yeah, let’s-- let’s read this letter at home.”

And they open the door to the casino, and as the Courier’s coat disappears into the elusive Lucky 38, the Strip is returned to its natural state.


	6. epilogue

The casino of the Lucky 38 is dark. 

It normally isn’t, but there are, as with most every casino, no windows on this level, which means that when the lights are off, the darkness is all-encompassing. The Courier, in the darkness, reaches up to their helmet, feels for the button that lights up their eye pieces and--

“Shit, Yessie, you were right!”

It comes from somewhere in the dark. The Courier is instantly on high alert, and though there’s the nudge of familiarity in their brain at the voice, it’s not clear enough to settle them. They reach for the revolver on their hip, slowly, squinting through the darkness. “What is this?” they call, “Is this an ambush? Why are all the lights--”

There’s some mutter from the darkness, and all of the lights go on, eliminating the Courier’s need to turn on the light in their helmet. They blink against the sudden light, looking frantically around at the casino. There’s… streamers, it looks like, and the Courier spots Yes Man grinning on the screen beside the elevator, and certainly Yes Man would have warned them if something was up, but they can’t help but continue to blink blearily around.

As the casino, along with everyone they know, begins to come into focus, a barrage of sounds erupt from around the room. They can hear Rex barking, and some cheerful beeping from ED-E, and a host of voices, all calling, “Happy birthday!”

The Courier blinks. “…But… it’s not…”

Their eyes adjust to the light. They look around at the casino. Cass and Boone are seated at one of the regular tables, exchanging a conversation via expressions, as if nonverbally arguing whether or not this was a good idea. Lily stands near the counter, beside a large cake that looks rather ugly, but with clear intentions behind it. Veronica sits atop the bar, offering the Courier a smile. Raul leans against the bar beside her, holding a Sunset Sarsaparilla by the neck. Arcade is seated on a stool at the bar, tapping his fingers cautiously against the counter, with Rex seated beside his chair, panting. ED-E is hovering above the cake, near Lily, and when the Courier glances around again at everyone, they finally notice the dusty cardboard hats everyone but Rex is wearing.

Veronica speaks up first, responding to the Courier’s worries with a light laugh and a, “Don’t think about it too much, Six.”

“But I don’t have a birthday,” the Courier protests. They wouldn’t  _ mind  _ having a birthday, they suppose, but the simple fact of the matter is that they don’t.

“Everybody’s got a birthday, boss,” Raul says, and he reaches over the counter and offers an unopened Nuka-Cola to the Courier. Arcade regards the offer with a quirked brow, looking between Raul and the Courier.

“Most of us just don’t care about it anymore,” Boone explains, and the Courier nods at him. They accept the Nuka-Cola Raul is offering, twirl it in their hands.

“But I don’t even know my birthday.” The Courier inspects the bottle. “I hardly know how old I am.”

“We know, dear,” Lily speaks up now, and her voice is kind. “That’s why we chose today.”

“Yeah!” Cass agrees, “Yessie said you’d be back today ‘nd you were. Everything worked out fine.”

The Courier rakes their memory for what today is. They hardly remember the date, let alone the significance of it. They want to retreat into their memories, scream into their helmet about everything that’s been slipping away, but everyone is looking at them, and the Courier realizes that they’d rather be here, with their friends, than alone in their room to get angry at themself. So they look around, and ask, “What happened today?”

“It’s fine, Six!” Veronica is still smiling, but it’s a sadder smile. She glances over at Lily, and then back at the Courier, and continues, “Come on! Get some cake.”

“It’s an eyesore,” Boone starts, and Cass reaches across the table to smack him on the side of the head. “Ow! Shit. It smelled good while it was being made. So I’m sure it tastes good. Better than the shit we scavenge, anyway,” he continues, and Veronica rolls her eyes, stays quiet.

“How’d you guys even find cake?” The Courier asks, but they approach the counter nonetheless, hope that Lily can feel the grateful look they’re sending her.

“Lily made it. She told us what to get, so we tracked it all down and, uh, she baked it all up.” Arcade is the one who answers, nudging his glasses up his nose and crossing his arms over his chest.

“Thanks.” The Courier looks back down at the Nuka-Cola they’re holding. “But what-- what’s today?”

Boone waves a hand. “Don’t worry about it. Take a break.”

The Courier is hardly able to register the irony in Boone telling them to take a break before Raul speaks up, “Yeah, boss. It’s a party. Enjoy yourself.”

They look around again. The Courier is not quite sure of how they could have gotten so lucky. They’re being smiled at, and Rex is panting happily, tongue hanging out of his mouth, and ED-E is beeping a light-hearted beep.

They figure it’s best not to dwell on the things they don’t know, at least for tonight, and they take a seat at one of the larger tables the casino floor has to offer. Raul is the first one to join them, and then Cass and Boone, and then Veronica hops down from the counter to take a seat, and ED-E whirs around overhead, and Rex curls up beside the Courier’s stool, tail beating happily against the ground, and Arcade and Lily help to dole out the cake before taking their own seats.

The group of them sit for a long while, listening to the Courier fill them in on what a great big confusing trip that was, and the delivery to Swank, and the letter the Courier has yet to read to Yes Man, until eventually the clock has ticked by and people are beginning to doze off at the table. Lily retreats first, and then Raul, citing his old age. Boone turns in some time after, and hovers at the bar for a moment before taking a bottle of purified water and stepping into the elevator. ED-E follows Veronica out when she leaves, having had to be woken up by the Courier after she’d fallen asleep sitting up, and eventually it’s Rex, and Cass, and Arcade, and the Courier, quietly seated around the table.

The Courier can tell Rex is asleep. They’re pretty sure Cass is, too, judging by the even rise and fall of her shoulder and the way her face is tucked into the crook of her elbow. Even Yes Man seems to be absent, the terminal beside the elevator dim and quiet. Arcade, however, is awake, humming softly along with the song playing over the radio, clutching a Nuka-Cola bottle though there’s nothing left in it.

“How was that?” Arcade asks, and, for a moment, the Courier doesn’t recognize that he’s talking to them. He’s still staring insistently at the bottle, as if the bottle will make a good conversation partner.

“It was… really good,” the Courier answers, and they see Arcade smile down at the bottle.

“You seem distant,” he says, and the Courier sighs.

“I just can’t remember what today is. Did you guys choose the day randomly?”

“No.” Arcade looks over at them at long last. “You really don’t know?”

“I don’t,” the Courier answers, and they hate how meek their voice sounds, even to them.

“It’s the anniversary of the Hoover Dam.” Arcade goes back to looking at the bottle. He scratches at the bottom. “The day you freed New Vegas and the Mojave, chased off the Legion and the NCR.”

“Oh.”

“We realized it was coming up, and Yes Man said the chances of you getting back today were much higher than any other day, and we didn’t know your birthday, and we decided it was worth it to combine them.” Arcade pauses. “Was that dumb?”

The Courier has to think about it. “No. I don’t think so.”

Arcade nods, slowly. The two of them are quiet for a moment. The Courier feels swallowed by the silence. “No one thought you’d do it.”

“Huh?”

“No one thought you’d do it,” Arcade says again. “Free the Mojave, I mean. I didn’t. I don’t think anyone here did. But you did it anyway. And we’re all trying to get our lives back together. I think it’s safe to say that, at least. A couple of us have done better with it. But Boone, Cass, and, well, I know I’m not exactly a shining beacon of someone who adapts well to change, but even me. You changed a lot when you did that, Six.”

The Courier swallows. “Good change or bad change?”

Arcade glances back at them again. He looks them up and down. “It’s too soon to say for sure. But, hey, we’re still here.”

The Courier nods. “Alright.” They relax their grip on the edge of the table. They hadn’t realized how tightly they’d been holding it. Their knuckles hurt, now. “I know I don’t remember a lot, but I’ll remember this.”

“I know,” Arcade says. “Against my better judgement, I trust you.”

The Courier wants to laugh. Instead, they exhale slowly. “Thanks. For all of this.”

“Nothing to thank just me for. Want another piece of cake?”

“Why not?”

Arcade stands back up. He sets the empty Nuka-Cola bottle down on the table, and takes a plate. The Courier watches, mulls over everything in their head.

“What were you going to say to me?”

Arcade hums, glances back at them. “What?”

“In the elevator, before I left. What were you going to say to me?”

Arcade halts for a moment, seems to think over this. “I don’t recall.”

“That’s alright. Just… don’t hesitate to ask if you do, okay?”

“I won’t.”

The Courier knows he can’t see it, but they smile at his back, from behind the helmet, regardless. After a moment, Arcade turns, and the Courier stands to be level with him as he heads back for the table.

“Happy birthday, Six,” says Arcade.

“Happy birthday, New Vegas,” says the Courier.

The Courier accepts the cake. The Lucky 38 is quiet.

**Author's Note:**

> much thanks to dragonGnostic on ao3 and rainbowbomb on tumblr for helping with beta'ing this work!
> 
> hope you enjoyed, thank you for reading, and happy trails!


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